


Friday at Eight

by Miracule



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Okay listen I needed an angsty epilogue to Ride so I wrote one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:40:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5673013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Ride. Thursday invites Morse for dinner. Morse would rather not go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday at Eight

**Author's Note:**

> In which Morse is unwell, and Thursday tries not to see it.  
> Please forgive any Americanisms!

Win had insisted, and Thursday wasn’t about to tell her no—not on Morse’s behalf. But the lad was doing his absolute best to weasel out of their dinner plans. He said that he was feeling out of sorts; that he might have to work late; that he would rather have a quiet night in.

“What, you mean drinking ‘til you doze off?” Thursday had eventually snapped. Morse looked aghast. It was uncalled for; below the belt, Thursday knew that. After all, he understood all too well why Morse was dragging his feet. Coming back from the War, many of his friends had behaved similarly. But Win wanted to see him, and if Win wanted to see Morse, she would damn well see Morse.

“It’s only dinner,” Thursday insisted as they collected their coats that evening. He still hadn’t wrested a final confirmation from the boy, and this was surely the last chance he’d get to sway Morse’s decision.

Morse sniffed indignantly and nodded with a little jerk of his head. “I know,” he said. “I’ll go; I promised I’d go.”

There was a chilly note in his voice but Thursday chose not to hear it. He’d won—for now, at least. Whether he could convince Morse to stay for dessert was another thing altogether. 

But it turned out that Thursday’s hard-won victory wasn’t such a victory after all. In the car, Morse was stony. He kept his eyes trained on the road and only spoke when Thursday dared to speak to him. Even then, his replies were pithy and curt.

It was never any use fighting with the lad. When he didn’t feel like talking, there was no getting anything out of him. Moreover, Thursday had a suspicion that—if he pushed any further—Morse would get petulant. It didn’t happen very often, but it was as plain as day that the lad was in a mood.

Thursday peered sideways at him and happened to catch his gaze. Morse’s eyes darted back toward the road.

Thursday stifled a sigh and rallied. “Are you all right?” he asked. He was so used to people throwing that question at him—at the market, at the bank, at the station—that it still felt odd to repeat it.

“I’m fine,” said Morse.

Thursday arched an eyebrow. “I know you’re not keen on going. Just stay for dinner, then you can scarper.” He watched Morse’s face for a reaction, but the lad was suddenly impassive.

“I’m sure Mrs. Thursday’s expecting me to stay,” he said as he turned down their street. As always, he avoided the perennial pothole with practiced grace.

“Well, I don’t want you to if you’re going to be sulking over your roast.”

This did earn him a curl of Morse’s lip, but the lad reigned himself in. “I’m fine, sir,” he said slowly. “I’m sorry; I’m just tired is all.”

He put the car in park, and Thursday gave him one last look before they went out into the gathering dark. Under the streetlamp, Morse’s profile was strikingly hard and angular, and Thursday wondered—certainly not for the first time—how much weight the lad had lost in prison.

Thursday also began to wonder if he was in the wrong for being so insistent. He should’ve just let the poor lad bow out of the arrangement, he told himself. It wasn’t as if Morse needed any more pushing around.

But it was too late for that. 

Win, upon setting eyes on them from the window, rushed to open the door, and Morse was left smiling sheepishly at her as he crossed the threshold. He dutifully offered his cheek, but she pulled him toward her with such gusto that Morse’s smile faltered—momentarily displaced by pinched confusion.  

By way of explanation—and to make Win’s point clear—Thursday rested a hand on Morse’s narrow shoulder. He knew that Morse wasn’t one for being touched, but this time the lad didn’t seem to mind. Lucky, that.  

“Come on, Win, give the man a breather,” said Thursday, removing his hat with his free hand.

Win held Morse at arms length and smiled broadly, presumably at the blush that had crept into the lad’s face. Morse smiled back, although Thursday could see that it was the same smile he often used on the job. Sergeant Jakes wasn’t very good at being charming; Morse was. Somehow, he put women at ease.

As Thursday hung his coat on a peg, Joan and Sam shuffled in from the living room. However, while Sam moved forward to shake Morse’s hand, Joan stood stiffly at the periphery of the circle. It was unlike her. She had been going on about seeing Morse for days, but now she was oddly mute. It was Morse who finally acknowledged her and said a soft hello.

“Hello,” she repeated, hurrying to give him a little peck on the cheek. She seemed to smile despite herself, and Thursday didn’t bother asking her for his.

As the family herded Morse into the living room, Thursday went to pour himself a much-needed drink. “I’ll bring you something,” he told his concerned bagman. “Just make yourself at home.”  

In the kitchen, heat radiated from the oven, and Thursday took a moment to luxuriate in it. The station was always so drafty, especially when the weather started to change; it seemed like a miracle that Morse and Jakes and the other skinny lads didn’t freeze to their chairs. He poured himself a little whisky, drank it, and then dug out the sherry.

“Can I have some, Dad?” asked Joan upon his return.

He shrugged as he handed a glass to Morse. “It’s in the kitchen; you know where.”

She scoffed. “What is that, anyway? Doesn’t look like the usual.”

Morse had already put his freckled nose into the glass. “Sherry,” he said, in a decidedly neutral tone.

 

 

Throughout dinner, Thursday found himself looking at Morse between bites of roast and carrots. Morse, on the other hand, seemed incapable of swallowing much food. He took little mouthfuls of the meat and then pushed things around to make it look like he’d eaten more than he had. Thursday consistently fought the urge to tell the lad to finish his vegetables.

To make matters worse, Morse wore a cagey expression that seemed to fly over everybody else’s head—only, it was making Thursday’s stomach flip every time he looked across the table.

Joan prodded his arm, distracting Thursday from his fretting. “You might like it, Dad. I really want to see it,” she said animatedly. Thursday realized that he hardly knew what she was talking about. A film, he guessed.

“I’ve never heard of it,” said Morse. “But... it sounds interesting.” At least somebody was listening.

“I don’t understand these foreign pictures,” added Win with a grimace. “More gravy, Morse?”

“Oh, goodness, no thank you.” The lad gave her a shy smile and stirred the food around his plate. “It’s delicious,” he added.

“Impeccable, as usual,” Thursday agreed.

After a while, the conversation continued leisurely, and for some time Morse acted like any other guest. He chuckled at the right moments, complimented their home, and admired the dinner set. He even offered to help Win and Joan clear the table, which was more than most young men would do. Thursday thought that the lad looked relaxed, although to be fair, he’d stopped searching for proof to the contrary. 

Therefore, he didn’t think much of it when Morse slipped away to use the loo. Instead, he poured himself a bit of whisky, sat with Sam in the living room, and watched highlights from the match. Joan wrinkled her nose at them from the threshold until Win asked for her help with dessert.

It wasn’t until she asked him if Morse liked coffee that he realized the lad hadn’t come back.

“Perhaps he’s escaped out the window,” said Joan, although the expression on her face belied her flippancy.

“What if he isn’t feeling well?” Win prompted.

“He’s only been gone a few minutes,” said Thursday. “I’m not about to go knocking on the door.”

About ten more minutes passed, and Thursday suddenly felt very keen to do exactly that. Morse wasn’t one to dally, and he certainly didn’t seem the type to be sick in other people’s bathrooms.

“Maybe you should go check on him, Dad,” said Joan.

Thursday agreed.

Knocking was the hardest bit. It felt so undignified, and part of him hoped that Morse was snooping around a bedroom instead.

“Morse,” he said through the door. “You all right?”

There was no answer. “Morse,” he said, a little louder. “If you’re not feeling well, I can..." 

“I’m fine, sir,” came a subdued reply. “I just wanted a bit of air.”

“In the bathroom?”

“I’ll be down in a moment, sir, I’m sorry.” Even the old door couldn’t muffle the throaty quality of Morse’s voice, nor the quiet series of sniffs that preceded it.

Thursday lowered his voice. “Morse, if you weren’t well, you would say so, wouldn’t you?”

“Aye,” he muttered. It was the least convincing thing that Thursday had ever heard from the lad.

“Why don’t you open the door?” To Thursday’s surprise, after a brief pause, the lock clicked and the hinges creaked. Morse stood before him with his head ducked and a pale hand hovering in front of his eyes. Thursday released the breath he’d been holding and Morse seemed to shrink even further into himself.

Thursday’s heart sank. “Do you want to come into my room for a minute? Sit down?”

Morse mutely shook his head.

At a loss, Thursday nudged him back into the bathroom and shut the door. The soft light from the ceiling made it nearly impossible to see Morse’s face under his hand, but Thursday could guess what the lad was trying to hide.

“What’s happened?" 

Thursday didn’t necessarily expect an answer, but it was right to ask. He needed to ask.

“Nothing,” Morse replied. “Nothing’s happened.” His voice was low and restrained; forced out of an uncooperative throat. He took a slow, shallow breath, and Thursday was painfully aware of how it shook. Morse himself seemed to vibrate as if somebody had flipped a switch in him.

“Come on, Morse.” Thursday reached out to touch his arm, and was unsurprised when the boy took an instinctive step back. “What can I do?” It wasn’t as if he’d never seen Morse in tears, but this was different. Rosalind Stromming wasn’t hanging dead in her cell this time around.

“Can I bring you something?” he pushed.

Morse shook his head again.

A sharp knock at the door saved Thursday the trouble of thinking of what to say next. “Fred?” That was Win. “Everything all right?”

“We’re fine, darling. Morse thinks he’s coming down with a bug, is all. He’s feeling a bit peaky; just taking a moment for it to pass.”

“Oh, goodness. Do take it easy, dear,” she addressed Morse, “Don’t be afraid to ask Fred to drive you home.”

Morse’s hand dropped, and he managed to croak a little “thank you.”

For the first time, Thursday had a good view of the boy’s face, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen a keener expression of pain on somebody so young. There was something decidedly feverish in it; Morse’s eyes were bright and bloodshot and his cheeks were flushed with heat. It hurt to look at him.

Thursday listened for Win’s footsteps retreating down the stairs. “Tell me what’s eating you, Morse. Don’t go this way. Not you.”

Morse turned toward him, startled, and a tear dripped unchecked down his nose.

Thursday was remembering Mickey Carter; his friends from the War. Morse _could not_ go the same way.

Suddenly short of breath, Thursday went to get a towel from under the sink, if only for the opportunity to avert his eyes. The last thing he needed was to cry in front of his bagman. 

He ran the cloth under some cool water and wrung it out in the basin. Behind him, he heard Morse stifle a sob. Thursday tried to hand him the towel but Morse only held the thing as if he hadn’t the slightest clue what to do with it. 

So, Thursday took him carefully by the wrist and tugged him forward. Morse turned his head away. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, on the heels of another sob. “I’m—”

“Aye, you’re sorry,” Thursday interrupted. “No need to be, lad. Not with me.”

Morse fell silent but Thursday could feel him shaking.  

“It’s all right, Morse,” he pressed. “It’s all right.”

Morse sniffled and cleared his throat, struggling to regain some composure.

“I never know how... how to behave here,” he said as Thursday pressed the cloth to the nape of his neck. “I never h-had this.”

“You do just fine.”

“I don’t—I don’t _belong_ here, sir, why didn’t you let me...”

Thursday gave him a little jerk. “You’re a friend,” he said, a little harder than he’d meant to. “Of course you belong here.”

The corners of Morse’s lips twitched into an unhappy smile, but it quickly faltered.

“I don’t feel well,” he said, catching Thursday’s gaze. That sort of exhausted honesty—coming from Morse, of all people—was more than disconcerting.

“How so?” Thursday could hardly get the words out.

Morse grimaced. He shook his head as if to say that he didn’t know. “I’m not well,” he repeated. “I don’t...”

“It’s all right, lad,” said Thursday, although he knew that it wasn’t the truth. “You’ll be all right.” He put the cloth against Morse’s forehead. The boy’s skin was warm and slick with sweat.  

“I don’t think so,” said Morse. He stayed unusually still under Thursday’s touch, which was scary in itself. But after a moment, he reached gingerly for the inspector’s sleeve.  

“I never say thank you,” he pronounced slowly. “But I mean to.”

“I know, lad.”

“I’m careless.”

“You’re _not_. No more than the rest of us.”

A moment passed in silence, and then another. Thursday took a deep breath. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone in your flat,” he said, thinking that Morse would soon be asking to go home.

The lad looked puzzled. “I... I’d like to stay,” he said quietly. Thursday noticed that the furrows in his brow had smoothed, and while his eyes were still too bright, they were no longer spilling tears.

Thursday wondered if he could get away with smoothing down Morse’s hair. It needed to be done, but he decided that no, he couldn’t. “You like coffee, don’t you?” he asked instead.  

**Author's Note:**

> loved it? hated it? drag me in the comments, mateys.


End file.
